The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  Lovell unfastened his harness and dragged the bodies to the far end of the gondola, where they wouldn’t get in his way, and then knelt down and unpacked his rifle.

  Bailey unbuckled his harness and slipped out of his seat, taking care not to unplug his headset. He pulled a green nylon bag from under Farrell’s seat. Inside was a laser targeting device, normally used by hunters, which had been fixed to a metal frame and a telescopic sight. Bailey carried it over to the hole in the bottom of the gondola where the television crew had been installing their camera. Bailey slid their equipment to the side and fixed the laser into the mounting, attaching it with four bolts.

  Mary Hennessy handed her ticket to the grey-haired man at the gate, took the stub he gave her, and pushed through the turnstile, taking care not to snag her bag on the chrome bars. The man’s orange peaked cap was pushed back on his head and his forehead was bathed in sweat. The stadium was packed with fans, most of them dressed in colourful T-shirts and shorts, and the black and orange Oriole insignia was everywhere. The crowds were buzzing, and as Mary walked she heard good-natured arguments about the merits of the players, the teams, and whether or not the Prime Minister would manage to reach the catcher with his pitch.

  She walked by food stalls where men in short sleeves were selling giant pretzels and hot dogs and the air was thick with the smell of french fries and onions. The lavatories were on her right. Kelly Armstrong was standing at the entrance wearing a pale blue jacket over a white dress. She gave no sign that she recognised Mary, but followed her into the lavatory. Most of the stalls were empty and Mary selected the one in the corner, furthest from the entrance. She put her bag on top of the toilet and undressed, hanging her clothes on the peg on the back of the door. From the bag she took out her orange and black usher’s uniform and the orange cap with its shiny black peak. She slipped on the black pants and fastened her orange suspenders, then put on the shirt and waistcoat, and adjusted the cap. She fastened her transceiver and holster around her waist, then took out a compact and checked her appearance in the small mirror. She tore off a piece of toilet paper and rubbed away her lipstick. She had a pair of bifocals in the bag and she put them on. The combination of bifocals and no make-up made her look much older. She nodded at her reflection, then rolled up her original clothes and stuffed them into the bag.

  She knocked on the stall door twice and heard Kelly say that the coast was clear. Mary slipped out of the stall and pushed the bag into the bottom of the trash bag by the sinks. She gave herself a final check in the grimy washroom mirror and walked by Kelly to mingle with the crowds. As she went she heard the FBI agent whisper “Good luck.”

  Lou Schoelen opened the office window and stood to the side as he looked at the ballpark in the distance. Four floors below, traffic was bumper to bumper as office workers headed out to the suburbs. Beyond the roads were the harbour-side shopping malls, and beyond them was the harbour, littered with small boats. Schoelen inserted the earpiece of his transceiver into his ear and switched it on. He clipped the radio to the rear of his belt, picked up his Horstkamp and knelt down by the side of the desk. He had put a large commercial directory on the desk and he rested the barrel of the rifle on it while he put his eye to the scope. He centred the pitcher’s mound in the scope, then swung the rifle slightly to the left so that the crosshairs were centred on the chest of a man wearing a grey suit and sunglasses.

  He tested the pull on the trigger, then slipped his finger out of the trigger guard and laid the rifle on its side. He looked at the large stainless-steel diving watch on his wrist and rocked back on his heels. The excitement was almost sexual and he took several deep breaths. High in the air above the ballpark he saw a large green helicopter, Marine One. He picked up the rifle and focused on the helicopter as it circled over the stadium, then aimed at where he knew the fuel tanks were. One shot and Marine One would go down in flames, taking with it the most important man in America. Schoelen smiled. It would almost be worth it, but that wasn’t what he was being paid five million dollars for. He put the rifle back on the desk and watched the helicopter flare for landing.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” said Cole Howard, the binoculars pressed to his eyes as he watched the door of Marine One open and fold outwards to form a set of steps.

  “I’m amazed that something that ungainly can fly,” said Clutesi.

  The two FBI agents had left the main stand and gone down to the baseball diamond with Joker so that they could be closer to the President when he disembarked. Joker stood with his back to the helicopter, scanning the crowd for any faces he recognised.

  As Howard watched Marine One, two Secret Service agents came down the steps, resulting in a wave of tumultuous applause from the spectators. Secret Service agents ran out and surrounded the helicopter, their heads swivelling from side to side, their hands never far from their concealed weapons. The radio crackled in Howard’s ear and he recognised Sanger’s voice, asking for situation reports from the men in the tunnel leading to the stand through which the President would be walking. Marine One had landed close to the tunnel entrance and effectively shielded the President from the buildings which overlooked the ballpark.

  In his earpiece, Howard heard a voice say that Pied Piper was moving to the door of Marine One. The President appeared at the top of the steps and waved to the crowd. Howard heard an agent say that he’d seen a man reaching inside his jacket and there was a flurry of activity close to the tunnel with a trio of black-suited agents surrounding the man. It turned out to be a camera the man was reaching for. If the President was aware of the disturbance, he showed no sign of it. He walked down the steps, waving with his right hand and keeping a careful grip on the safety rail with his left. As soon as his feet touched the ground he was surrounded by half a dozen of the Secret Service’s bulkier agents and they moved together to the tunnel like some strange fourteen-legged sea creature. Only when the President and his security team were safely in the tunnel did the First Lady appear, followed by several more Secret Service agents. The First Lady followed her husband’s example and waved to the crowds before she descended. A second group of agents surrounded her and ushered her into the tunnel.

  The crowd yelled and the rotor blades of Marine One began to spin, accompanied by the roaring whistle of its massive turbine. The huge helicopter lifted off, turned slowly in the air, and then flew up into the sky. It lifted up beyond the stands and the ranks of powerful spotlights which had been switched on, even though there was still plenty of daylight left.

  “Come on,” said Howard, and he led Clutesi and Joker towards the tunnel entrance. Joker jogged to keep up with the fast-walking FBI agent. “Sanger says we’ll be allowed into the sky box, but he’d like us to keep our distance,” said Howard.

  “The box is enclosed, so it’s unlikely that a sniper would try to shoot him through glass, isn’t it?” asked Joker. “The glass would deflect any bullet.”

  Two Secret Service agents barred the way of the three men, their hands moving inside their jackets, until they saw their identification. They moved apart, their faces displaying no emotion.

  “Yeah, that’d be the case if there was just one sniper,” said Howard. “But we’re talking about three. It could be that the first shot is to smash the glass, and it’s the second and third which will be the killing shots.”

  They reached the sky box just in time to see the President shaking the hand of the Prime Minister. The two men were talking and smiling, though it seemed to Howard that the President was bored and only going through the motions. The First Lady joined them and began talking earnestly to the Prime Minister. A discreet distance behind the VIPs stood Sanger, his head turning slowly from side to side.

  “Does your Prime Minister go in for sports?” Howard asked Joker, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Cricket, mainly,” said Joker. “And he goes to the odd soccer match.”

  “I don’t see his wife here,” said Howard.

  “She doesn’t ge
t too involved in affairs of state,” said Joker. “Not like your First Lady.”

  Howard grinned good-naturedly. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Seems to me that we voted in a two-man team without realising it.”

  Secret Service agents were constantly moving around the President and his guests, and they were still on edge even though there were no members of the public within fifty feet. There were other security personnel around, members of the Prime Minister’s bodyguard unit. They seemed smaller and less fit than the American agents, and not as well groomed. The Secret Service agents wore expensive, immaculate suits, brilliant white shirts and perfectly knotted ties which wouldn’t be out of place in a bank’s boardroom. The Brits wore suits, but they clearly weren’t made-to-measure and their shoes were dull and scuffed. They did have one thing in common with their American counterparts, however — cold, watchful eyes, But while the Secret Service hid their eyes behind dark glasses, the Brits kept theirs unshielded and Howard had eye-contact with several of them as he stood by the door with Clutesi and Joker.

  “Are these guys SAS?” Clutesi asked Joker.

  Joker looked at the men standing guard on the Prime Minister and grinned. “No way,” he said. “They’re cops, not soldiers.”

  Through his earpiece Howard heard an agent he assumed was Dave Steadman calling for situation reports from his men around the stadium. The President pointed down to the pitcher’s mound and said something and the Prime Minister smiled wryly. The First Lady said something to him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. They all laughed.

  “He doesn’t seem the happiest of campers,” Howard whispered.

  Joker shrugged. “He’s got a lot of problems at home,” he said quietly. “How are they leaving? By helicopter?”

  Howard shook his head. “Motorcade,” he said.

  “That’s risky, isn’t it?”

  “They’re only going to the National Aquarium, less than a mile away. Sanger says they’ve arranged for a dummy motorcade to leave first by the main entrance as planned. The real motorcade will go ten minutes later through a back way. They’re using a bullet-proof Rolls-Royce from the British Embassy in Washington. Sanger seems happy with the arrangements.”

  Joker nodded. He looked out through the window of the sky box. Secret Service agents were gathering around the diamond. “I think I’ll go down and check out the ground level again,” he said. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure,” said Howard. “Just remember what Sanger said — no sudden moves, okay?” Howard watched Joker go.

  “Isn’t that your friend?” asked Clutesi, tapping Howard on the shoulder.

  Howard’s heart sank as he recognised Kelly Armstrong. “What the hell’s she doing here?” he muttered under his breath.

  Kelly walked up and greeted Clutesi and Howard. “I didn’t realise you’d be here,” she said to Howard.

  “I was going to say the same,” he replied.

  “I wanted to talk to the Brits about their security arrangements,” she said. “Why are you here? I thought the Kims had ruled out the ballpark.”

  “They have done, but we wanted to keep Cramer close to the President to see if he recognises anyone.”

  “Cramer?” said Kelly, frowning.

  “The British guy we found at the house.”

  “You mean O’Brien.”

  “His real name’s Cramer. He used to be with SAS.”

  Kelly looked confused. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  “We only just found out ourselves,” said Howard.

  “And I really should have been told that you’d be here today.”

  “I don’t see why. You have your job to do, I have mine.”

  “But if you thought the assassins were going to strike here, I should have been told.”

  Howard took a deep breath. “Like I said, we just wanted Cramer here to see if he could recognise anybody. He’ll be sticking close to the President for the next few days while we continue to look for the snipers.”

  “I wish you’d stop hiding things from me,” she said. “It’s as if you’re deliberately trying to make me look stupid.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she retorted. “You’ve resented me being part of this investigation right from the start.”

  Heads began turning to see what the argument was about. Clutesi was watching the two of them, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

  “That’s not true, Kelly,” said Howard. “Besides, I don’t think this is the place to be having this discussion.”

  “Where would you rather have it? In a bar? The way I hear it, you function better with a few drinks inside you.”

  “That’s not called for,” said Howard quietly.

  “Yeah? Once a drunk, always a drunk, that’s what I say,” she said. “We all know that if it wasn’t for your father-in-law you wouldn’t even be with the Bureau.” For a moment it looked as if she wanted to slap him across the face, but then she turned on her heels and walked away.

  Howard could feel his heart racing and he fought to contain his anger. “I wonder what’s got her so riled up?” said Clutesi.

  “She’s just an evil bitch,” said Howard.

  “I don’t think so,” said Clutesi. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  Through the open window of his hotel room, Carlos watched the President’s helicopter climb into the air and fly away from the stadium like a monstrous insect. Carlos linked the fingers of his hands and cracked his knuckles. In the distance he heard the first few bars of the Star Spangled Banner echoing around the ballpark. He checked that his microphone was clipped to the collar of his shirt and that his earpiece was firmly in place, then he carried the television set over to the dressing table. He took a pillow from the bed, placed it on top of the TV, then drew up a chair and sat down. The TV provided a perfect rest for the rifle, and the pillow would add extra stability and help dampen the recoil. Next to the television set he put the P228 and its silencer.

  Lined up on the table were three gleaming brass cartridges. He picked up one and rolled the smooth metal between his fingers.

  “Dina, this one is for you,” he whispered. He kissed the cartridge and slotted it into the breech. The first shot to break the glass, the second for the President’s chest. If there was time, a third. It would be the greatest achievement of his life: the assassination of the President of the United States. The IRA might take the blame, but the credit would be his. His heart thudded and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He had to banish all anxiety from his mind, he had to focus on the target, not the man. In the distance, he heard a deep, throaty voice begin to sing the National Anthem.

  Patrick Farrell scanned the instrument panel and turned the blimp’s nose slightly to the left. He looked at the altimeter. They were four hundred feet above the ground and Farrell was trying to put the airship in exactly the right position. He was using the GPS, VOR and DME equipment as primary navigation aids, but the final adjustment would have to be done visually by Bailey using the laser sight. During rehearsals earlier in the year they’d pinpointed an intersection of an alley and a road which was exactly two thousand yards from the pitcher’s mound. If the airship was directly above the intersection, it was in the perfect position for Lovell’s shot. Farrell was nudging the airship over the school, making small, precise corrections of the control wheel and rudders. He looked at the reading of the wind computer. Once he had the blimp stationary in the air, using the twin engines to hold it steady, he would be able to read the wind speed and direction and relay it to the snipers in time for them to make their wind corrections.

  “Almost there,” said Farrell in his headset. “I’ll tune the radio to the general frequency.”

  Bailey looked over his shoulder and nodded as Farrell turned the dial to the frequency the snipers were using. Lovell was kneeling by the open window, his eye pressed to the scope of his rifle. He was as still
as a stone statue, and Bailey could barely see the man’s chest rise and fall as he breathed. Behind Bailey, a pool of blood was slowly spreading out from under the two corpses. He put his eye to the telescopic sight. Down below he could see the small red dot of the laser dancing on the roof of a black Cadillac. The alley was to the left of the dot and Bailey began calling out instructions to Farrell, guiding him slowly to the exact spot where Lovell would make his shot.

  Marty Edberg clenched his knuckles and glared at the television monitor. The shot of the giant scoreboard was wavering as if the man operating the camera had Parkinson’s Disease.

  “Wendy,” he said through gritted teeth, “tell Lonnie to get a grip on himself, will you? Tell him if he can’t give me a steady shot I’ll come out there and rip his throat out with my bare hands.”

  Edberg’s assistant spoke quietly into her microphone and the picture on the monitor steadied.

  “Thank you,” said Edberg. On the main monitor, a bulky, cowboy-hatted country and western singer was putting every ounce of effort into his rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, and the picture was so sharp that Edberg could see the tears welling up in the man’s eyes.

  “Wendy, get me a close-up of the flag, and then we’ll superimpose the singer on it,” he said. His assistant spoke quickly to one of the cameramen and monitor number three soon had a tight shot of a fluttering Stars and Stripes. She moved one of the sliders and slowly brought up the flag on the main monitor so that it rippled like a ghost behind the singer. “Good,” said Edberg approvingly.